


livewire

by sidnihoudini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-30
Updated: 2008-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets his easy money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	livewire

"Like you really needed _thirty five rounds_ of Magic Fingers!" Sam shouts, reaching forward to hold onto the dash one-handed as Dean flies over a couple of potholes and around a gentle curve.

Dean shoots a sharp glare across the front seat of the car. "I was _stressed_ that night, okay?"

"And I bought that gin 'cause I ran out of painkiller before I dug the _bullet_ out of your chest, not because I'm an alcoholic!"

Brushing Sam off, Dean glares back over his shoulder before he changes lanes. "Whatever," he grumbles under his breath.

"Dean!" Sam bitches, getting all riled up just like Dean knew he would. He catches Dean smirking and immediately feels his anger pop. "Whatever," He grumbles, scowling even more as the grin on Dean's face gets bigger, happier about being able to egg Sam on. "Either way we're out of cash."

A landscape of flat land and fields fly past the three of them at rapid speed. "Whatever, man, we'll just find a pool hall," Dean says, like it's no problem. "Give me half an hour in there and we'll be up enough to pay for a bed and some food tomorrow."

.

The next town they drive through is a little on the trucker pit stop side, and Dean has no fantasies about getting mauled over by a 6-foot-5 ape the minute he pulls something quick on one of the tables, so they park the car next to a field full of livestock and crash there until sunlight.

Sam takes the backseat, as usual. Dean puts his sunglasses on and butts his feet up against the interior of the passenger side door.

"Night," Dean mumbles, settling down into his jacket. Sam makes a very non-committed noise, and flops his hand against where it rests along the top of the front seat.

.

The next morning they scrounge together forty bucks for some gas and a couple of sandwiches from the day-old deli counter just barely holding up beside the pumps.

"Tastes like oil," Sam mumbles around the soggy bread and sliced cheese.

Dean shrugs and eats his sandwich in fours.

.

They're driving through town that night, looking for something Dean can really sink his teeth into.

"Rod and Gun?" Sam asks, hunched low in his seat so he can squint out the front window and read the signs, like Dean can't or something.

Dean makes a 'nah' noise and slows down at a red light. "There's gotta be something around here. What kinda small town doesn't have a..."

He trails off when he hears Sam laughing.

"What?" He asks, trying to look in the same direction Sam's facing. All he sees is a street front full of closed stores, and the impatient bastard behind him honking his horn.

Sam shakes his head, "Nothing."

"What!" Now he's got Dean all interested.

Still trailing off on the remnants of his laughter, Sam does another flip of his head, this time to get the hair out of his eyes, and says again, "Nothing," but then gestures out the back window to the block they just passed. "Just, easy money is all."

"Easy money?" Dean echoes, turning around in his seat, squinting out the narrowed back window. In the distance he sees a few neon lights reading XXX and WET WET WET. "You're gonna get the body oil out?"

Sam shakes his head and looks at Dean with a vaguely disgusted expression on his face. "No, Dean."

"Then what?" Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel as they slow at another red light.

Already looking at the next block of establishments coming up, Sam explains, "Strip contest. The sign said the winner gets nine hundred bucks."

"You wish," Dean snorts.

Sam laughs under his breath and watches out the window. "Yeah," He throws a glance over at Dean. "Cause you'd do that, definitely."

"I totally could!" Dean tells him, defending his own honor. Sam immediately levels a 'seriously?' look over at him. "I could do that shit."

Shrugging, Sam throws one arm over the back of the seat and shifts his hips forward, relaxing. His knees are starting to get sore from sitting so long.

"No, sure you could," He nods, just cause he knows the passive aggressive tone to his voice will piss Dean right the fuck off. He tries to bite back a smirk.

Dean glares at him out of the corner of his eyes. "I will turn this car around," He announces.

"Dude," Sam laughs, curling his fingers against the leather, almost at Dean's shoulder. "I was kidding. Chill."

But now Dean looks like he's _seriously weighing his options_. Like it's an insurance investment or something. "And that sign said nine hundred bucks?"

"Yeah, but Dean, hold -- "

Sam has to hold onto the door to keep from knocking his head against the window when Dean spins the car into the other lane, doing a huge u-turn right in the intersection.

.

Five minutes later, Sam's got his hands in his pockets as they stand in the lobby of Monty's strip club.

Dean is at the rickety poker table, writing his name onto a sheet of graph paper: _dancer sign-ups._

_Oh god_, Sam thinks, staring up at the ceiling as two girls walk by wearing tassels on their boobs. _Beam me up right now._

.

The contest doesn't start until eleven, so they go to the all you can eat buffet next door in the meantime.

Dean loads his plate up with ribs, chicken wings, corn cob, fries, parts of an omelet, and a little fork full of salad just to appease Sammy. He sits there plowing through the twelve-by-twelve plate until there's nothing but a couple of bones and stray pieces of corn.

It's about the time Dean's really about to unbutton his pants as he sits there, belching, that Sam finishes up his round of rice and chicken and says, "Yeah, you could definitely win America's sexiest bachelor right now."

"But Sammy," Dean says, belching again, reaching for his water. "I thought you and me were steadies."

Sam makes a face and pushes his plate away.

.

By the time they get back to the strip club after Dean's banquet, it's quarter after eleven and there's already a girl on stage wiggling around to Anthrax.

So naturally, Dean follows the signs backstage to "get ready," and Sam awkwardly shuffles through the crowd below the stage. He manages to get a seat right in pervert alley.

For the first three performers -- two girls and a guy -- he manages to maintain a wandering stare along the bottom of the stage and pick both labels off his two beers. The stage is falling apart and could probably use the nine hundred bucks Monty's about to lay down on an ass shaking contest, but the drinks are good. Sam orders another one from a Hooters reject in-between a girl with pink hair and a guy who shakes his ass to Boston.

Sam wonders if he and Dean had a quick make-out session in the dressing room.

One more guy comes out to a show of red lights and a Kanye West track, before Sam feels his stomach drop. _Love Hungry Man_ rattles the legs of Sam's chair as Dean walks across the stage, a serious expression on his face.

It's kinda funny. Even funnier when the dirtbag on the mic introduces him as the cock of rock, Cliff Williams. Despite his best intentions, Sam, pleasantly buzzed, starts laughing, glancing over at the perv sitting beside him. He's sweaty, red-faced, and shaking.

That makes Sam laugh even harder.

In all four minutes and seveneen seconds of the song, Dean not only manages to strip right down to his custom Walmart underwear, but pockets a good couple hand fulls of dollar bills, and at one point even manages to grab Sam by the back of the head to hump his face.

Sam appreciates the gesture, sure, just not in front of this particular town's selection of esteemed inhabitants. Which thankfully, Dean doesn't even try to touch.

The song ends and Dean's sweaty and grinning like that time he won the hot dog eating competition five years ago, standing there like a dumb shit, bowing and waving at his adoring crowd. Sam laughs and even sticks both his pinkies in his mouth to whistle, which, by the staggering grin Dean throws him, seems like it's vaguely appreciated.

Finally the host comes out and takes Dean by the elbow to escort him off the stage. Dean goes, picking up his jeans and t-shirt along the way, still waving at the crowd and grinning especially wide at the pumpkin-faced individual sitting to Sam's right. Sam rolls his eyes and takes small pleasure in the fact that he's the only one here who knows that Dean's actually been wearing those underwear for going on two days now.

Though, judging by Dean's usual bold faced lies, Sam would say it's something more like three or four by now.

.

Dean's sitting across Sam at one of the tables, enjoying a couple of beers that are apparently on the house when you win a strip contest at Monty's.

"Easiest money I ever made," He grins, flipping through the notes and arranging them so all the heads are up and staring back at him. Sam drains the last of his beer.

He stretches out in his chair and starts digging around for his wallet. He's still gotta pay for the beers he had before Dean's "performance."

"What about that time you found that fifty in a ditch outside that Pizza Hut?" Sam asks, stretching his arms out way over his head, letting his joints crack and adjust.

Dean makes a face. "Doesn't count." He hands Sam three hundred.

"Thanks," He tries to pocket the money as discreetly as possible. "Just, you know, man, don't make it a habit." He tucks the little wad of bills into his front pocket, that way he can keep a hand over it on their way out. "All you need is for some Fed to come and tuck a dollar bill into your g-string."

Scoffing, Dean puts another fold of bills into his jeans pocket, and the rest in his jacket. "They should be so lucky."

.

Sam's waving the nearest waitress down for an impulsive last round of beers when a leather daddy walks up to the table, much shorter than Sam but about three times as thick.

"You got a sweet ass," He drawls, eyes on Dean. Clearly not a man for the simple introduction.

Dean immediately goes from staring blankly at Sam to grinning up at his newest fan, looking disgustingly proud of himself. Sam leans slightly to look over the guy's stirrups and fitted leather vest.

"Thanks," Dean tells him, settling back into his chair a little. He completely ignores Sam slinging his hand up over the back of Dean's chair.

So Sam's fingers curve a bit, so he can rest his knuckles against the scratch of Dean's jacket.

"This your manager?" The bear asks, jerking his thumb in Sam's direction. It, also, is about half the size of Sam's smallest finger, and twice as thick.

_Awkward,_ Sam thinks, shifting.

"Nah," Dean smiles, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms up so his belly shows a little. Sam doesn't appreciate the gesture, really. "Business partner." He pauses to elbow at Sam and jostle him a little. "Eh Sammy?"

Sam throws him a tense stare, and presses his lips together. Dean's bear shifts a little and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Ever had two dicks in you at once?" He asks.

"Dude!" Sam exclaims, leaning forward to stare up into the guy's face. "Back off!"

For one horrifying second Sam has a faded vision of himself sitting outside in a ditch, ass well kicked and nose bleeding. Then he realizes Dean is chuckling to nobody in particular, a vague look of pride ghosting his face. Sam is immediately pissed off again.

"Sorry," Dean calls as the guy is making a half hearted retreat. When he's out of earshot, Dean glances at Sam. "That guy totally wanted to bang me."

Sam frowns as Dean leans back and crushes his hand against the chair. "That guy looks like he would've strung you up with chains and pissed on your face."

Even though Dean seems to consider this for a moment, he eventually shrugs.

"Whatever," He says, pushing the table away from his chair before he stands up and looks down at Sam, frowning up at him. He announces, "Lets get outta here."

.

Dean comes out of the motel office double fisting two cups of coffee, with the key ring in his mouth and most of his intention focused on spying on someone's TV through their opened window.

"Love that episode," Dean announces, vague as ever, as Sam crawls out of the passenger seat and accepts his coffee. It's too hot to drink, but Sam appreciates the gesture.

Sam frowns a little as coffee bubbles out of the styrofoam cup and all over his hand.

"Can we just get inside before one of your fans come lurking?" He asks.

Dean smirks at him, lips pressed together, eyebrows raised as he watches Sam walk away, back pack slung over his shoulder.

"Why Sammy," Dean snickers, going round to the trunk of the car to grab his duffel. "I didn't know you cared."

.

Sam's staring intently at his laptop screen when Dean approaches, shotgun stock in one hand and his cleaning rag in the other. He stops crotch level with Sam's screen, and waits until Sam looks up before he says anything.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

"You're jealous," He says.

Sam bitch-faces him right away, which only makes Dean grin harder.

"Yeah," He nods, lips pressed together. Dean cants his hips. "I'm _jealous_."

Shrugging, Dean shakes his gun cloth out and goes back to cleaning the demon blood off the stock. "It's all over your face, Sammy."

"Look, I just didn't find it all that fun to sit in a strip club for four hours," He reasons, or tries to at least, then turns his attention back to his computer.

Dean leans against the foot of the bed and rubs at his ear with his shoulder, hands still working over the gun. Sam waits for it, waits for it, then Dean replies, "You're a damn liar."

"Why the hell do you think I'd be jealous of you, Dean?" Sam finally snaps, jerking one hand out to emphasize his point as he glares up at his brother.

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes, pushing away from the bed with his hip. He snaps his wrist and the gun safety locks. "Dude, you about blew a fuse when that guy grabbed my dick."

"What guy?" Sam doesn't remember anyone grabbing Dean's dick. He starts getting all riled up instead of concentrating on the chupacabra sighting he was just reading about on some local message board. Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam in the flippant way of his and lays his rifle back down on the kitchenette table. "Dean."

Dean sighs like Sam's putting him out and leans back against the kitchen counter, both hands at hip-level. "I don't know, some guy."

Sam licks his lips and narrows his eyes, trying to gauge what Dean isn't telling him from across the room. Sam frowns and shakes his head. "Liar."

"If it gets you through the night, Sammy," Dean laughs, then starts scratching at the corner of his eye with his pinky finger.

Sam's huffing effectively ends the conversation; Dean wanders back over to his weapons table.

.

An hour later, Dean comes out of the bathroom lobster-skinned from his shower and trying to untwist his underwear elastic from around his hips. Sam's flipping through the channels on the TV, sprawled out across the bed that doesn't have all their stuff on it.

"That cooking guy you like is on," Sam mentions, changing the channel. _Intervention_, a weekly soap opera round-up, infomercial for the Magic Bullet, a repeat of _The Cosby Show_.

Dean towels the water out of his hair. "The English dude, or that guy who was on Oprah?"

"English guy." Sam settles on the Food Network, because it really is Dean's secondary porn, and tosses the remote onto the bed, stretching out over the mattress. His back and elbow cracks when he stretches his arms over his head, watching the TV sleepily. "It's the meatball episode you like."

Rounding in on the TV, still partially drying off, Dean licks his lips. "Aw yeah," He says, to nobody in particular.

He stands there watching until the commercial, because Dean is physically incapable of doing two things at once when good television is on. Halfway through a promo for some new show featuring girls and cakes, Sam finally bites the bullet and says, "It just pissed me off, the way they were all staring."

"Huh?" Dean looks away from the commercial and over to Sam, still on the bed, now scratching his belly. "Who, at the strip club?"

Sam nods without really moving at all, and keeps staring at Dean, mouth in a straight line.

"Dude, of course they were staring at me," Dean scoffs, making a face. "I was in a _strip contest_." He frowns at Sam some more, then laughs. "And you didn't really seem to mind when you got my dick in your face."

Smirking a little, Sam frowns and shrugs. "I guess."

"You guess," Dean balks, taking the two steps between where he was standing and the end of the bed. He uses the bed frame as a step stool and climbs up onto the mattress, wobbling as his feet sink into the spots with broken springs. He walks up Sam's legs until he's swaying above him, and drops the towel over Sam's head. "You were packing wood the entire time."

Sam yanks the damp towel off of his head; when he resurfaces, his hair is standing up on end in some places and he's trying not to properly smile.

"That was from the waitress who pretty much served hand jobs with the beer," He lies, leaning his head back against the head board so he can look up at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and drops down onto his knees, straddling Sam's thighs.

Not really thinking about it, Sam rests his hands on Dean's bare thighs and lets them drift up, under the threadbare fabric of Dean's underwear. Which is still twisted.

"Well," Dean starts, getting his hand on the back of Sam's neck to tilt his head up so they're eye-to-eye, with Dean on the proverbial top. "I can do one better."

Sam tilts his head back and keeps leaning until Dean gives up and lets his hand slip down to the nape of Sam's neck instead.

"Believe it or not," Dean continues, rolling backwards until he can gain momentum and swing back onto his feet. "For tonight only, I'm available for private shows."

Laughing now, Sam relaxes back against the head board as Dean reaches up to turn the radio on.

"Fuck it," He says, after a second of flipping through static-only stations. He turns it off again, and makes out with Sam instead.

Which, you know, is a plan that Sam is definitely for.

.

The next morning Dean is standing in the parking lot with bleary eyes and a coffee in his hand.

Sam comes out of the office with a handful of napkins and two complimentary stale muffins. "Here," He hands one to Dean.

"We couldn't stay here for a day longer?" Dean complains, trailing along behind Sam, coming up beside him to throw the last of their stuff into the trunk and slam the door.

Making a face at the non-Food Network worthy muffin, Sam shakes his head. "Chupacabra. Next town over. C'mon, you love these things."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, walking around to his side of the car. He and Sam look at each other over the hood for a moment before sliding in.

While Sam's settling his stuff in and around the general vicinity of where Dean is settling his own stuff, someone knocks on Dean's window, and makes them both startle.

"Jesus," Dean bitches, glancing over at Sam before winding his window down.

A shaky-looking, plaid suit jacket wearing, nervous guy is standing there smiling at Dean.

"How's it goin'?" Dean asks, angling away from the window so he's face to face with what Sam would heartily refer to as a dirtbag.

The guy stumbles and mangles up a couple of funny pick-up lines and then manages to blurt out something about the strip club they were at last night; Sam doesn't really catch the whole thing.

"That ship has sailed my friend," Dean says, half-grinning at his second biggest fan. He's already starting to roll the window back up as he says, "Sorry dude, maybe next time," and then turns to goggle at Sam.

Now Sam's kinda laughing as he picks his muffin over, offering a smirk and shrug in Dean's general direction.

"The chupacabra sounds _awesome_," Dean finally settles on, as his earlier caller is wandering back across the parking lot.

He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot without a second thought.


End file.
